


Of Oak Shields, Iron Hearts & Amber Eyes

by DayDreamingAni



Category: The Hobbit, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fandom Pardon Me, Gandalf scheming, Gandalf the Meddler, Hobbit Warriors Kinda, I'm Bad At Tagging, Just the way it came out., OFC - Freeform, OFC-centric, OH! Kinda made Hobbits racist, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Playing Fast and Loose with Valar's creations., Tolkien Forgive Me, Wasn't intentional, fem!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:23:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6438913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayDreamingAni/pseuds/DayDreamingAni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call them the Warriors. Children born among them to fight against the black of the realm in the days of the wandering. They called them Protectors, Defenders, Saviors.<br/>Now they call them Blights, Disgraces, Defilers of their mothers creation, for they are not needed among the civility of everyday day Hobbity life.<br/>Or<br/>The one in which Hobbits have warriors, but don't like them and have casted them out.<br/>Or<br/>The one in which Bilbo Baggins, a respectable Hobbit, runs off into the wilds with 13 Dwarves, a Strange Hobbity Warrior and a crackpot wizard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Girl who Asked

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this on a whim.  
> I'm kinda nervous about it.  
> Would really like some feedback.  
> And if any are willing to Beta, that would be amazing!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Anyhooo, thanks to those who clicked, I love you all, and I sincerely hope you enjoy!!!

For a very long time, she never questions why things are the way they are. 'It is simply the way it is done dear' is what her father always says when she does gather the courage to inquire. But she never outright questions her parents; never does she pose it in a hard question that demands a real answer. Because, there is some base fear that rumbles in her chest that tells her: she might not like the answer to her little questions.

She finally asks in her fifteenth year. The day she's out playing with her friends. A day spent gathering wild flowers and making flower crowns. A day where she scuffed her knees climbing trees and saved two princess while wielding a wooden sword. It is a day that was entirely normal until she see's it.

A mother and her babe are softly walking through the Deno Meadows. A chubby baby who has to hold his mothers both hands to properly walk. For a moment she cannot seem to place their faces with names. That is, until, her mother looks up and smiles over at them. It is her mothers cousin, Rose, cousin Rosie her mother liked to call her. Cousin Rosie with her nine month old baby boy Regath? (Or was it Reginald? Rorith? Something or the other, starting with an 'R'.)

As her mothers cousin walks with her child she stares on and observes. He is a cute enough baby. He's nice and round, though a little tall, but he might have gotten that from his fathers side. The hair on his head was a nice ruddy shade of blonde with streaks of auburn tossed in. Dressed in a white little suit he was as cute as a baby could be. His feet and hands are bare—as is the way with children that young—until, as she's watching does that change. Before her eyes black begins to grow on the babes otherwise unblemished tawny skin. She watches as the mother stops dead in her tracks and stares wide eyed and open mouthed.

The swirls of dark patterns are unlike anything she's ever seen. Where most have petals of flowers, blossoming beautiful and gentle flowers, this baby does not. What he has are dark climbing vines that remind her of the leaves of a stinging nettle. They are spiked, jagged things that look as if they could leap right out and hurt the onlooker. She wonders in silent horror and fascination what type of hobbit presented with thorns? What did that mean? Then she wonders if maybe, because they look sharp, if they might hurt the babe. But no, he does not seem to bothered in the slightest. For he continues on with happy little coos and garbles when a butterfly flutters past him. 

The babe doesn't mind, but, the mother does. For she is the one that drops to her knees and issues a heart wrenching sob. She is the one that stares dumbfounded at the inky designs and simply weeps. She grabs hold of her child and weeps as if someone has died. She cries until Farmer Pedeant comes rushing over and sees to her and her babes safety.

When her Aunt Gloriha comes to bring them inside and away from what is happening she asks, 'What's wrong with the baby?' Her aunt simply shakes her head and answers, she has been chosen little one. 'Chosen for what?' she immediately questions. To which her aunt merely shakes her head and says that she better run home and ask her father. 

It is dinner time when she finally does, ask, that is. She's been staring at her plate of baked chicken and boiled greens when she musters up her Tookish blood. She levels her sparkling moss colored eyes and asks them both, “What does it mean to be chosen?”

The silence she is met with unsettles her. For her home was a lot of things but never was it silent. Not like this anyway. Her mother was always moving, washing plates, washing clothes, stringing them up on the line, knitting, crocheting, painting, and all the while she would hum. Her father, no matter how much he tried to break his habits, was prone to muttering under his breath. (A habit, she is constantly told, she has inherited.)

The one to answer is her father. His brilliant brown eyes, littered in specks of green and blue, shine beneath his toffy curls. His perfectly round and handsome face is blank and holds only mild curiosity as he leans towards her and asks her, “Why do you ask, dear?”

Flicking her moss colored eyes between her parents she takes in their differences silently. Her father, Bungo Baggins, is the penticale of Baggin-ish propriety. He is polite even when he has been startled so by such an impolite question. There was always a warm smile ready on her daddy's face. Always a nice thing to say about any of the nasty hobbits with finicky personalities. Though he was a Baggins his was a mind as curious as any Brandybuck. Thus, he encouraged great big long discussions from topics about pond frogs to the creation of dragons. But he was never one to encourage the gain of knowledge when one was not ready for it. Her mother, Belladonna Baggins nee Took, is the very name which is given when anyone asks 'What do you mean Took's are rowdy?'. She was the kind of hobbit who went on adventures. She was the hobbit who rode the wild ponies. She was the hobbit who encouraged her to wear boy clothes and tumble harder than any of the boys. She was the mother who whispered secret stories to her in the night when her daddy said she was too young to hear about that. 

Strangely, her usually very loud and very opinionated mother is quiet. Her grip on her spoon tight. Her posture ramrod straight as she glares daggers at her plate. Her sparkling green eyes refusing to meet her daughters gaze. It is her father who is the one who looks to be resigned to broach the topic with her. As if he has been both dreading and anticipating such a talk with her for days now. 

“Today, while I was playing with Agusta...” she begins, slowly and softly as her confidence waned. She had not expected such strange reactions out of her parents. 

“Your Aunt Gloriha's girl?” her father questions.

With a nod she begins again, “We were playing in the Deno Meadows, picking flowers and making crowns. And we saw Cousin Rosie with her baby...”

The speed in which her mothers head snapped up cuts her off. Her mothers usually dancing eyes are hard now as she stares at her daughter. There is a tightness around her usually laughing mouth as she questions, “What happened?”

“Her b-baby...” she stutters out, scared and on the verge of tears, “Aunt Gloriha said she was chosen.”

The words that leave her parents mouths are heated, vicious and said in the tongue of old. They are curses, she knows, because they only ever spoke the language when they cursed or when they didn't want her to understand something. Her mother is white as a sheet and looks to be struggling with keeping her tears in and biting her lips raw. Her father has placed his elbows on the table—and wasn't that a sight!—as he bowed his head forward. It seemed all the weight of Arda now sat on her fathers broad and plump shoulders. 

For a moment, she wonders, wonders if maybe she could somehow unask the question she did. For look at what she unleashed here and now upon her unsuspecting parents. 

“Bunny...”

The call is soft and strained, but she hears it in the deafening silence of their home. Slowly she looks up and finds her mothers pained eyes.

“Bunny do you trust your momma?” her mother asks. 

To which she answers without hesitation in the form of a vigorous nod.

With a slow nod of her own, her mother stretches her lips and half asks and half begs of her child, “Then trust me when I tell you, this is a discussion for another night.”

She didn't ask much questions for some time after that. She simply did as she was told. When history and rules were explained to her and understanding half dawned on her she merely accepted it. She never wanted to see the world of utter pain in her mothers eyes again. She never wanted to be the reason her father cried in the dead of night. She never wanted to ask a question and witness her mother nearly fade as the consequences. She never asked again.

She never asked much, simply took the lessons in stride and kept her head leveled like any good little hobbit lass would. She kept her toes in line. She made her damnedest best to uphold the rules, traditions and codes her parents did. Even if….

Even if it left her wondering why cousin Rosie's baby had to be taken to the dark woods and never heard from again.


	2. Secret Rebellions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((So I've extended a hobbits average lifespan up to somewhere in the upper 190's. Also, I've made Belladonna the oldest of her 12 siblings. Why? Because I can. Because I am a mad (WO)man who disregards all fandom rules and has to be taken to the town square to be properly stoned. I'm out of control and need to be stopped!   
> Also, because I've just had my tonsils removed and have a 2 year old son who keeps pulling on my hair while I type. So I just thought, 'You know what, Fuck It. I do what I want, when I want!'))  
> Hope you all enjoy!!!~~~~~

The night on which she made her mother cry, her father drink and the house fall into such sadness did not—in fact—happen again. She kept her questions to herself. Let her rolling mind keep her wayward tongue in check behind her teeth. And she did her best to employ her most Bagginsy traits. And for a while, this worked well, marvelously actually.

Until of course she was in her late thirties—a time most often referred to by mothers as, the Terrifying Thirties—for it was much into the time in where Hobbit Lads and Hobbit Lasses begin to rebel. Often a times, such rebellion and crass nature did not present itself as quite volatile for Hobbits were at heart quite simple folk. It was just faunts acting out. Not wanting to eat a type of green, or wanting to eat dessert before dinner. Some even snuck about playing pranks and stealing pies off window sills. But these were the antics some of the more daring hobbits like Tooks, Brandybucks, or Bramers. And she was a Baggins, so that meant the most she was supposed to get up to was staying up a little past bedtime and demanding sweets instead of greens. 

Only, she wasn't just a Baggins, was she? No, she had Took in her.

It made her blood sing, it made her feet beat harder on the ground when in a foot race, it made her want to stick out her tongue every time the Bolgers passed her by.

So, caught in this phase was she when her mind came up with a brilliant alternative as to where to find the answers to the questions she feared to ask. 

*~*

Her grandfather, Gerontius Took, was a great old hobbit who was well on the way to breaking the longest living record in the shire, so he had seen many a few things. Considering, of course, he raised 12 Took children of his own. So little ever fazed him. He merely chuckled a wry laugh, or offered a crooked smirk. But when he caught sight of her, dirty curls, mud on her toes, slacks in place of skirts, rummaging through his office he could not help the bewildered expression he had nor the undignified squawk he uttered.

“By my toes, a burglar in my home!” he exclaimed once he schooled his features and straightened his worn down house shirt.

“I'm not a burglar!” she had exclaimed, her cheeks red and lips in a pout. Because, she wasn't, not really. She was going to return it after she took it. If ever she did find it. 

“Oh, my mistake then little Baggins,” her grandfather had said, in a tone that said he very much did not believe her. But if his sparkling eyes were anything to go by, he was less then upset and well into being amused, “Then what are you doing here, little one?”

“I'm looking for something,” she had answered, completely dignified in the way she straightened up her dirty vest and tucked her twig filled curls behind her leaf shaped ear.

With a small huff of laughter her grandfather left his position at the rounded entry way and crouched down before her. He placed himself eye level in such a way that she was able to take in his features. Features that were handsome, in the way only the Tooks ever were, features that were round and harmless. Features colored a soft golden hue by much days spent outside. Features that had won him the hand of her grandmother.

Features she could only ever call handsome and gentle. But she knows, back home, that most do not think so. They find her kindly grandfather as something of a menace. In his smile they find mischief. In his brilliant golden eyes they find hidden malice. In his hearty laugh they find deceit. Momma blames it on the days of her grandfather's youth. Days where he ventured, as but a boy, deep into the old forest and returned a man with wild tales of the creatures beyond. Spouting words of equality, of fairness, of crimes befitting disgrace. (Of what, she was never sure, her questions always kept under lock and key.)

But these are features she could only find love etched into every wrinkle. Features worn down by a life lived with kindness, compassion, love and all well things. 

“And what are your searching for little burglar?” her grandfather questions.

Scrounging up her nose in distaste at the title she reluctantly answers, “I'm looking for the family Tome, momma said every line has one, even the Bricegirdles. But momma says ours are the best, ours are oldest!”

Laughing a great booming laugh her grandfather nods his graying curls and tells her with a wide smile, “That it is little one: oldest and the best. But why are you looking for it?”

“Because I want to read it, they don't teach what I want to learn at school,” she tells him truthfully, because much is not said in Hobbiton. Not like it is here where her grandparents, cousins, uncles, aunts and distant relations live. 

Her grandfather is quite for a moment. His tawny colored eyes look far away as they look her over. His mouth set in a firm line that pulled at his brows. For a moment she's afraid he'll send her away. And she doesn't want that. She doesn't want to walk away from where she know's she'll find the answers. 

“Does your father know you're here?” he asks finally.

She contemplates lying for a spell. The lie alive and half ready on her tongue but one look into his hard eyes and she knows he'll be able to sniff it out. So she tells the truth and shakes her head.

“And your mother? Does she know what you're up to this day?” he asks.

Again she shakes her head. The taste of defeat clawing its way up her throat. 

With a hum and a firm nod of his head her grandfather rises up to his impressive height. (For he is by far, the tallest Hobbit in the shire these days.) silently she watches him as he makes his way over to the bookshelves that line his office. In no way is her grandfathers study like that of her fathers. Where her fathers is tidy, dusted and all the books have had their covers properly updated; her grandfathers have not. Her grandfathers are stacked in a way that threaten to topple over should anyone breath on them wrong. The spines of the Tomes are creaked, dirty and in desperate need of repair. It is by far the worst she's ever seen a study to be. And she knows it gives her father compulsions every time he is subjected by her grandfather to sit in here. Her father calls it 'Disorderly Chaos'. Her grandfather calls it 'Orderly Chaos' of which—her grandmother says—only he can navigate. 

It takes her grandfather a moment of searching between piles of books on the floor, to the shelves above, before he unearths a great large thing. Large enough, thick enough too, to be a book for a man, he grips it in his steady hands and blows the dust off with one hearty huff. And then slowly does he approach her.

The brown of the leather is now, very much, faded and worn down. The intricate etchings done must have once been gold as the light the filters through the round windows seems to bounce off them. They are in a language she cannot understand. A language not of the common tongue taught in the schools. She knows not what the symbols mean, nor what the words say, but she cannot help the sheer awe that wells up inside her as she traces them with the tips of her fingers.

“What does it say?” she questions, her voice pitched in a whisper as she is very much afraid someone might hear them and punishment would soon follow.

“This my dear says 'Tome of the Tooks' in a language most have forgotten. In this book, our pasts is written. The trails of which we faced and even where some of the clans began. It is a sacred book. A book handed down to every Heir of the Took line.” her grandfather proudly states.

“Does that mean momma gets it next?” her eyes dart up to his in excitement at the sheer thought of having such a wonder in her own home.

Laughing Grandfather states, “It will, one day, once I have passed on. Your mother is my heir but old men have their vices, even us Hobbits.”

Confusion lines her face but is warded away by her grandfathers jolly laugh and smile. Quietly he sits on his old chair and motions for her to take a seat at the foot of his chair. Slowly he opens the Tome and as he does so she can almost feel the air around them shift. What was once the bright hot heat of a midsummer day suddenly turned into the mystical wonder of the twilight hour. The crisp sound of the pages turning make her feel as if all the world will now be opened up and laid at her feet. And at that moment, she finds it ever appropriate that if not her most knowledgeable mother to be her teacher, it is the second most adventures Took right behind her: her own Father.

Her musings are interrupted by the way her grandfather takes in a deep gust of air, as if he'll soon be reading the strange words off the pages, but pauses quite abruptly. Quickly his hands pat about his pockets until they find a clear circular looking glass. It is about the size of his disk and he holds it out to the page so that he may make out the letterings with more accuracy. If memory serves her well, and it often did, it has been quite some years since last her grandfather could read—let alone write—without the aid of that funny little disk. 

Anxiousness rises up in her when he begins to mutter under his breath. Words she cannot understand. Words she is quite unsure could even be considered words at all. They are a strange noise akin to that of chickens clucking, birds tweeting and the roaring cries of cicadas during a terribly hot summer. She's about to ask her grandfather to please speak in common tongue, for she knows not what he is saying, before his eyes flash up to met hers in a deadly firm stare.

“Bethany Baggins, daughter of Belladonna Took, granddaughter of mine own,” he states slowly and carefully, his eyes never wavering form her own grassy greens, “All that I will be teaching you are tales of old times. Times back before the wanderings, times back before Fell Times even. This will the story of our creation.”

“But I already know that,” she tells him in a tone just barely above a whisper, “They teach us that in school.”

Shaking his head, an almost angry expression lights deep within his honey colored eyes, “No my child, they teach you what they think you ought to know and expect the rest of it to simply pass you by. These are the ways of the Shire now, as you know them, but this was not always the way. There was once a time in which, what I'm about to tell you, was accepted as truth and whole. But much has changed within the Shire. Much has changed of our kinsman.”

There is a small beat of silence that follows after his words. One filled with heavy apprehension and the distant cries of children playing out in the meadows of the great Tookborough Smials.

Leaning in close, her grandfather eyes her carefully, his eyes searching hers for the answers he has yet to pose a question for, “All that I am about to teach you goes against the very grain of every Hobbitish tradition we now hold very dear to us. This book speaks of great and marvelous things that happened to us hobbits, from our creation to the founding of the Shire itself. But it also speaks of the great horrors and despair we encountered in the Wandering Days as well as the wars we were forced to wage to claim this good land.”

“War?” she repeats in shock, because war was something no one in the whole of the shire ever spoke of. War was just something not done by Hobbits. And to hear that they had done so, on seemingly several occasions, shook something in her.

“Yes, war, not many here in the Shire are willing to speak of it, least of all acknowledge the black stains before the good times, but there is much bloodshed in our past,” Her grandfather tells her, a solemn note in his words. 

“And you'll teach me all these things?” she asks, when it looks as if her grandfather has been lost to his own dark thoughts, “You'll teach me everything that won't be said. You'll answer all my questions?”

She had managed, by the grace of the good green lady herself, to keep her voice calm and steady. When all she wanted to do was beg that 'Please, answer my questions. Make right what I do not understand!'. 

Still she thinks her expression sells her away as her grandfather gives her a pitying look, “Oh my dear girl, of course I will tell you. You are my kin, child of my own, a Took even without the name. Whatever you shall ask of me I will answer regardless of what it may very well be. I will have you learn what I know, what my ancestors before me knew. I will not have you walking about with your head in the soil like some type of Bardybutch.”

A sudden swell in her throat warns that she is on the very verge of falling to sobs. Because, her gentle—slightly bonkers—grandfather in all his kindly Tookish eccentricities have managed to do away with years of oppression her small childish mind has dealt with. She keeps at bay her tears by grabbing hold his worn down trousers and gripping them tightly in her small hands.

“I only ask, my dear, is if you'll give me your word,” her grandfather says slowly lowering his hand to run his fingers through her dirty golden curls.

“My word?” she parrots back.

Nodding he tilts her head so that he can see her face and take stock. In this light she cannot help but marvel at the eyes of her grandfather. For they are unlike those she has seen in any others. For now, with such intensity they seem to burn a molten golden color, “They say a Baggins is not a Baggins if he cannot keep his word. And as much as you are wild as a Took, which you rightly are, you have some Baggins in you. And that isn't necessarily a bad thing dear. Baggins are good folk. Good head on their shoulders. Never a bad word to say about anyone. Always kept to the old ways where they could. So I need to know, my sweet, will you give me your Baggins word and keep it?”

Straightening her shoulders and spine she juts her chin out in determination and nods, “If I give you my Baggins word, I'll keep it Granpa.”

“Good! Good!” her grandfather exclaims and goes back to looking over the first sheet of his ancient Tome. He's silent for a moment before he says, without ever sparing a glance in her direction, “Then before you go any further, I ask for your Bagginsy word, that you will not tell anyone not a Took in name, what you are learning here.”

“You have my word,” she says with all the seriousness her father had held when he explained what it meant to give a Bagginsy oath. Because the Bagginsy did not have rich histories like the Tooks. Nor did they have great wealth’s like the Hardbottles. Or any of the artistry found in the Brandybucks. What the Baggins had was their word. And one could lean their life against such a word without it ever faulting. This was a fact that stretched back as far as the Founding Days of the Shire.

“This includes your Momma and Poppa dear,” he further explains, his eyes firmly set on his pages.

There is no hesitation as she answers. There is no waver in her tone. She does not stutter, as she is prone to do when nervous, nor does she drop her eyes to her clenching fingers. She nods her head once and answers simply, “I give you my word.”

“Well, no time like the present then!” he happily exclaims with a broad smile her way, “Let us begin! Now tell me dear child, what has your mother told you of Our Creation?”

“Well, Poppa said the Green Lady made us,” she begins easily, the story memorized and instinctual at this point, “That she took soil and petals of elderflower with snowdrops and made us. That we are made of her love. And because of her love we are able to feel the earth beneath our feet. We are able to hear the hum of life, of love, and the voices of nature. That's why we get our marks, they are the Green Mothers touch, she tells us of our life or of our troubles. Poppa said she touched our hands and feet and that's why no matter where we go in Arda, life will spring from where we touched! Right, am I right?”

There's a strange mixture of annoyance and amusement written across her grandfathers aging face. Though it seems it is not directed at her but at the simple words she has spoken, for he goes on to explain, “Well yes, and no.”

“What do you mean?” she instantly questions. Because this is what is told in her home, in her friends home, and in the school room. How is she both right and wrong?

“Well, little Bunny, the story on how we came to be is far more complicated than that little version.” he says.

“Why?”

“Because life is ever rarely quite so simple. Life itself, as well as all the wide realm, is a very complicated place indeed. And the truth to our creation is a much darker tale than your old Poppa has made it out to sound.”

“So how were we made, then?”

“Ah!” her grandfather softly exclaims with a grin that spoke of too much mischief. His eyes were dancing as he patted the book firmly placed on his lap, “That is what the Old Tome is for. It tells of the truth of our creation as our ancestors were told it. It tells us of all and it is what I will tell you.”

Instinctively she scoots in closer still. Till she's pressed up against his leg with her chin propped up on his knee. Her eyes gleaming in a way only a Tooks could. But with her brows furrowed in contemplation only a Baggins ever could manage. 

“But before we get to any of the good stuff, how much do you know of the Old Tongue? What has your mother taught you so far?” he demands quickly of her.

“The old tongue?” she repeats with confusion. Only after a while does she question, “You mean Hobbitish?”

“Yes, yes, of course, what else would I be talking about?” he tells her easily.

Shaking her head she answers honestly, “None, Poppa said there'd be no use for it. Said it was a dead language, quite useless now a days.”

“A dead language!” her grandfather all but shouts in indignation, his face flushed red in anger. “That is the Tongue of our forebearers! Useless indeed, the next time I see that Baggins we will be having words!”

She sits in silence and confusion watching as her grandfather mutters in that Dead (Useless) language. His fingers running through his graying hair before finally they settle and he heaves out a tired huff of air. 

“Well, it seems the list of what I shall be teaching you in secrecy is ever growing little Bunny! Because ontop of the all the hidden truths I must now teach you the language of our own, Hobbitish! Now let us begin!!!”

 

 

And so, on the summer of her 32th birthday, Bethany Baggins, known often as Bunny Baggins, began to learn all the answers to the questions she never allowed herself to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo, what'd ya think?  
> I know, didn't explain a whole lot. But, I'm in so much pain right now I can't even focus straight and I didn't want to leave all of you hanging. So I figures, I'd upload this and make it up to you with a longer chapter next time.  
> Please be kind, drop a comment down below, let me know what you think, suggestions are always welcome!  
> -Ani<3


	3. Lost Histories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look into the past: the creation of the Warriors and Hobbit alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I don't know who founded Bree, if it was Hobbit or Men. But this is Fanfiction so I think I'm allowed some liberties, right?  
> Anywho, I don't know if I mentioned it, but this story will have an OFC, who will be a main character and the whole point of this Fic.  
> There will be Bilbo chapters, duh. But mainly OFC.  
> I just wanted to let you guys know. I don't want to give any of you the impression that I hoodwinked you into reading.
> 
> Tons of Love,  
> Ani<3

The story of their creation is one of great sorrow and even greater love. 

It is said they are children of the Valar Maiden Yavanna, Mother of the Great and Evergreen. It was she who breathed soft, sweet and warm life into them. It was she who opened their eyes and give them their light. It was she, the Green Lady, their merciful mother, who bore them only after the waves of destruction had wrought all her creations into ruin. Her delicate and beautiful children, lost and scattered. The Ent Wives lost to the darkness. It is said Yavanna wept for all that she had built had come to ruin under the siege of twisted darkness. She begged Eru's permission to create one last creature to whom she charged the mending of the lands. And thus they were born.

But it was not just in grief that she had borne them. Yavanna, the mother of lands and rolling hills, she had made them with a purpose in mind. For though, her lands were now twisted and shattered, she held hope that all wrongs could be righted. And this task she gave upon her children. It was upon them, their duty to their creator, to cleanse the earth of the foulness leftover from the wars. So onto them she gifted them a clean and compassionate soul. It was onto them that she gifted them the ability to connect with her lands and heal them with their light touch. It was onto them that she shared with them her light as one of the Valar.

And thus the marks they bear now which speaks of her blessings. Marks that wrap themselves over the tops of their feet, hands, and palms. Marks that come in the ways of their Mother's essence. Petals of flowers, vines with buds, twisting leaves and colorful designs. But in these marks, their mother kind and cunning, hid in them the future of everyone of them. In them, in the language of her own, she allows their fate to show through. These Marks are embody who they are, who they will be and how the mother calls them to their own. 

But the great and vast earth—after the great war—was far more wicked, tainted and foul than the Green Lady understood it to be. And so thus, it was a thing of torment to for her soft and beautiful children. For their Great Mother had made them in love, in care and healing, she had not made them for the cruel clawed hands that grabbed at them. She made them in her image as her husband had made his children in his own. So for a long time they wandered and endured such vile happenings. So many of the first born were lost to the beasts that dwelt within the shadows. 

All the while Yavanna watched and wept for her children. Until finally, when they could take no more, the beginning of the first tribes fell to their knees and begged the Green Lady for help against the wilds. A protector, a guardian, and watcher of the night that would aid them and defend them against the dark. 

But it was not their mother who answered their pleas. 

So it says, that it was the Lord of the Trees who came. The Great and Terrible Huntsman of the Wilds, who stepped forward. It was he and none else who saw the great strife that the gentle folk endured. For it is he who, among the Valar, still roamed after the great wars. It was he who still hunted the vile evil that clung to his creations. It was not just Yavanna who watched them endure, but he too, loved them for their light and pitied them for it. 

He pitied them for he was there in their first waking days of their creation. He had seen from afar the hands of his sister mold them into shape. He was there when she breathed life into their firsts lungs. It was he who had told her that she should have made them stronger. That she should have made them wilder and a little darker so that we would all be able to endure the darkness.

He pitied these strange little creatures because he knew that they had been made in love. And love, though it is a powerful thing, is not strong enough to undo the wrong that the Great Evils had inflicted upon all. So he saw and offered his help.

In the dark of the night he came to the little ones. Small creatures who were nothing like they are now. Creatures who were forced to endure the wilds and wander far without homes to weather the many dangers. There he met them and told them—Children of his Great Sister—that he could help them. That he could show them how to survive. But in doing so, he told them, he would remove them from the touch of their mother. The things in which he wished to show them would not be anything soft, precious and warm like the tender caress of their mother. His gift to them would be darker, wilder, and more vicious than what their hearts would ever know.

In the end, it was twelve who came forward. The strongest of heart, of mind, but holding within them the strongest of their mothers light. Nine were women, three were men, and he bore them away to his realm. 

And in the dark of his woods he taught them the secrets of his ways. He taught the twelve how to hunt without the light of day. He taught them to move like whispers in shadows. He taught them the skills of bows, arrows, swords and staff. He taught them the languages of many things, for he himself was master of the tongues, and they were able to hear the voices of those who were lost. He taught them that there was precious life that thrived in his woods; life that would be otherwise lost without a caretaker. He taught them his own secrets and entrusted onto them their safety. 

But, most importantly and above all, he taught them how to bear the darkness. He taught the 12 willing how one could live in it and not become it. He taught them how to use it as a cloak and shield but never succumb. He taught them the ways of a warrior; fierce, harsh and vicious were their ways now. In doing so, much like how Morgoth had twisted the image of Elf into his own perverse vision, so had The Lord of Many Voices.

He had not meant to, but he did. Yavanna had not meant her children to bear such darkness in them. She had meant their hearts to heal. She had meant for their light to glow bright against the dark, not embrace it. The twelve of which he bestowed his great knowledge and greater gifts had thus changed in his care.

That they, his twelve warriors, were now lost to their own creator—for in them they held not their mothers light anymore, it was taken from them when they accepted his gifts and knowledge—wore heavy on him. So he comes to them again and bestows one last gift upon them: His Touch.

A touch that spread wildness in their hearts. A touch that made them call home the untamed rivers. A touch that let them run free and careless through his forests. A touch that wiped the touch of their mother from their hands. A touch that spread like wicked thorns, gnarled roots and jagged branches across their hands, feet, forearms and shins.

It was the gift that claimed them as his own children. A touch that said they held a new purpose. A gift that allowed him to call them his own. A gift that marked them as children of Oromë, King of the Forests. 

And so, the Children of Yavanna—with the aid of the Valar Oromë—bore these new warriors. Warriors who would guard them. Warriors who would keep them safe. Warriors who would ensure they would survive the wilds. Warriors who were their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, daughters and sons. 

With the help of these children of Oromë, Yavanna's own were able to walk upon the wicked lands. They were kept safe under the ever vigil eyes of these warriors. Children were kept safe as the Children of the Forest drew their swords. Many fell, in these wicked times, both Yavanna's and Oromë's And such was the way for some time, longer than was rightly due to them. 

Until, finally, they came upon a lush and fertile land.

A land unclaimed. A land both brimming with the gentle light of their mother and the wild fire of their father. Together, they named this place, The Shire. Together, they named this place home. Together they flourished, living alongside one another—as family—to make safe their newly established homeland.

Within the soft green rolling hills of their new lands they dug their homes. Homes made of supple earth and thrumming with the warmth of their mothers love. In the vast fields they planted their crops and toiled onto the back of their mother. This was home for them and the Hobbits were much grateful that all they endured would be rewarded with this. Finally they could do as their mother had wished for them: heal the grounds. And they did. They put every ounce of themselves back into the lush green grass, the soft petals of roses and the goods they kept. But they were their mothers children and they had a great love for simple things and simple life. And soon, the feet that never stopped wandering for a home stilled and found themselves resting before a roaring fire. 

A good way of life, slow, simple and comfort filled was quickly being formed. 

But, while Yavanna's own found comfort in this peace, the same could not be said for those who called the Huntsman father. Their hearts were wild still. Their blood sung of will, of battle, of things greater than that of tilling crops. Their homes were not in the hills but high upon the tree tops. Where they could hear the songs of the trees sung loud upon the winds. Their feet were not meant to be idle but to be prancing from branch to branch. Their hands were made to wield weapons. Their love was for the wild that grew in the shadows of great lumbering trees. 

And, in the beginning of the Founding Days, it was quite a normal sight to see the Children of Oromë wander far and deep into the still unknown forests that surrounded their new land. It was quite a normal sight to find that Yavanna's children stayed close to their little homes. It was quite a normal thing to find that two vastly different ways of life existed alongside one another effortlessly. And, amongst themselves, they never found reason to dislike such differences. To them all was as their creators had wished it. With this in mind it brought upon them great peace and protection for many a years. 

Until, the founding of the Men's town: Bree. It was a good town with strange wares that helped their own home. They were much thankful for the oddities that came with Men. But, with Men, came their beliefs, prejudices and superstitions. 

While Yavanna's own were warmly welcome, with their soft round face, bright smiles, leaf shaped ears and golden tanned skin the same could not be said for Orome's own. Orome's children who wore dark leathers, who honored their father by baring their marks with pride, who still carried their weapons, who's features were darker, whose teeth were sharper and were seldom seen as jolly as their counterparts were never welcomed or trusted.

With time, somehow, such beliefs found ways to become problems for them all. Problems that made it impossible to trade the smoking weeds reasonably. Problems that had Orome's own being turned from town and coming back with fruits, vegetables and products that spoiled. Problems that had Yavanna's own being denied refuge if they happened to be with one of Orome's. Problems that gave way to unrest amongst their own. Problems that quickly bled into the simple life of the Shire. 

Where once the great big differences between the two children were rejoiced, now, they were seen as a bane. It was seen as more of a reason for Yavanna's own to be left with bare necessities when they could have much more. It was seen as more of a reason to not sleep within the ground but in the shadows of branches. It was seen as more of a reason as to why they shouldn't intermingle as casually as they once did. 

In the end, what pushes all over the edge is an attack on the little town of Man. Those in Bree call it the Black Night. Those in the Shire call it the Red Morrow. Those in the forest call it the Beginning. Orcs came down from the mountains. A battle was had. Lives of Men lost. Lives of Orome's own too fell. Yavanna's own buried as well. A dispute was had. 

Why did the famed warriors of the Huntsman not do more. Why had they not come sooner. Did Yavanna's own defend them? No, they too had lost several in the bloodshed.

In the end, Orome's children found solace in the shadows of the Old Forest. A forest filled still with the magic of older days.

In the end, Yavanna's own watched them go. Many whispering their goodbyes with tears in their eyes. Many others holding pitchforks with hate in their eyes.

In the end, Yavanna's own were named Hobbits while Orome's were called Pəˈrīə.

In the end, this brought upon the days that are now well known. Days where Yavanna's and Orome's children live separate and away from one another. These are the days where Orome's children are taken to the entry way of the old forest and abandoned. Days where Yavanna's children take great care and effort to ignore the beginning ways of their old lives.

So says, the Tome of the Tooks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts????  
> I'd really love to hear what all of y'all think.  
> No comments make me nervous. I feel like this Fic is bombing and yall are being too kind to tell me!!!
> 
>  
> 
> Oh!!! P.S. Pəˈrīə means Pariah. it's just written out phonetically. I thought I was being kind of cute with that. :)


	4. The Ordinance of the Shire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This...  
> I'm not sure what this chapter is, to be honest.

 

 

 

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Those born with the Mark of the Pəˈrīə are not welcome, wanted or allowed within the borders of the Shire.They are to remain within the lands of the Old Forest.

Children born with the Mark of the Pəˈrīə are to be taken to the border and are to be left there. No child Marked or Chosen shall be raised on Hobbit Land. 

Marriages between Hobbit and Pəˈrīə are hereby void and declared unlawful. Should any be caught under such a crime it is grounds for banishment on both parts.

Those born with the Mark of the Pəˈrīə cannot own, claim or purchase land within the border.

Those born with the Mark of the Pəˈrīə have no right to any claims regarding inheritances of wealth, land, homes, or orphans; where concerned. 

Trade to those Marked Pəˈrīə are not considered valid under Shire laws, as such, are fit unlawful. Any gain made on those Marked will thereby be confiscated.

Those born with the Mark of the Pəˈrīə are not to be afforded with the same laws, customs nor rights as those born as a Hobbit.

None shall mention those bearing the Mark of the Pəˈrīə to any outside the Shire.

Those caught aiding or housing those bearing the Mark of Pəˈrīə shall be banished.

None but the Blessed Children of Yavanna reside upon the Green Lands.

So decrees the official Ordinance of the Shire.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as slimy as a fucking slug for writing this.  
> But, it's part of the story I'm hoping to show you all.  
> If any are curious, I mirrored these laws to those of the J.Crow Laws. Which, disgusted me to be honest.  
> And no, I'm not trying to demonize Hobbits. This is simply the story I wish to write. So, yeah....


End file.
